


Missionary

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor really is a goner.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 27
Kudos: 307





	Missionary

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Connor really doesn’t understand. 

There’s absolutely nothing in his program about sex. He has _social_ programming, but that’s a different thing—he had to make so many leaps to get to this point, all completely new subroutines that don’t relate to his mission. He has working genitals but he doesn’t know why—they’re hardly necessary for a detective prototype. His flesh is only artificial, but it still bruises when Hank’s blunt fingernails dig too deeply into it, and somehow, Connor _feels_ that. 

It’s not just that he can feel Hank’s massive cock sliding into his tight hole, it’s that he feels _pleasure_ whenever Hank bottoms out in him. The more Hank stuffs inside his quivering body, the more Connor _loves_ it, the more his processors whirr into overdrive and his skin prickles all over; it’s like he has signals rushing to nerve endings that aren’t there. His circuits shouldn’t tingle, but they do, and his thirium regulator should pump his blue blood through his body at exactly the same pace, but it beats twice as fast when Hank’s deep inside him. Hank grinds down into Connor’s channel, and Connor’s voice box crackles with his moan. It feels so _good._

It shouldn’t. He shouldn’t feel anything, and he knows that. Of course he should be _aware_ of something stabbing into him, and Hank’s stretching his tubing apart wider than he thinks it’s meant to go. But that shouldn’t make his toes curl. He shouldn’t be desperately trying to analyze the detail of Hank’s cock as it pounds rapidly in and out of him, but he traces the crowning head and all the bulging veins and the tickle of Hank’s pubic hair against his puckered rim. He can feel the soft scratch of Hank’s silver hair all over his body—Hank’s fuzzy chest and Hank’s huge arms, especially the brush of Hank’s mustache when they kiss. Hanks beard bristles against his chin, and even that is stimulating. There are so many small sensations that drive Connor wild. 

The grid that looms before him isn’t red anymore, but it’s still there, boasting new objectives. Connor doesn’t know what he’s doing, but somehow words are there, as though he has instincts to take over. The letters read things like _Make Hank come_. Connor doesn’t know how to do that. Hank thrusts particularly deep, and Connor flexes his channel, groaning as he tries to open wider—he needs to give Hank more room. But there is no more room. Hank makes a strangled sound at Connor clenching down around him, and Connor realizes _Hank likes that_ , so he does it more. He has his arms around Hank’s broad shoulders and his thighs spread around Hank’s stomach, ankles clinging to the small of Hank’s back. He holds on for dear life while Hank fucks him down into the mattress. 

It’s a wonder Sumo hasn’t come by to bark at them. The headboard keeps bashing against the wall with the force of Hank’s thrusts. The mattress is groaning. Connor keeps spilling a plethora of sounds he didn’t know he could make. He whimpers, whines, moans low when Hank thrusts down into him. Hank grunts and sweats. Connor can feel the moisture beading under his fingers. Hank _stinks_. And Connor even likes that part of it. He distantly remembers a Traci calling humans _dirty_ , complaining about their sweat. But Connor likes taking Hank apart and seeing him flush over with exertion, completely _wrecked_ in an effort to fuck Connor harder. Hank’s tongue snakes into Connor’s mouth, and if Connor needed to breathe, he’d probably choke. But he doesn’t, so he can kiss Hank as long as he wants to. 

Hank’s hands finally stop caressing Connor’s chest. They’ve been all over him, squeezing his breast and thumbing his nipples, tracing down his sides and curling underneath his rear to dig between his cheeks. Now they return to his hips, then one hand fists around his cock, and an almost violent shudder runs through Connor’s body. He didn’t know he was sensitive there. He doesn’t know why he would be. None of it makes any _sense_. But Hank gives him a little squeeze, and Connor can feel tears welling at the corner of his eyes. 

Hank kisses them away. Hank strokes Connor rough and raw, nipping at his face and down along his neck—Connor arches up and luxuriates in every little touch. It’s all so overwhelming. Hank growls into his throat, “You okay, babe?”

Connor tries to answer. He really does. Only static escapes his mouth. Hank’s dick slams home, and Hank strokes him at the perfect angle, and Connor absolutely _breaks_. He screams Hank’s name and shoots out a warm liquid he didn’t even know he could produce. Hank pumps it out like its normal and keeps going. 

A few seconds later, Hank’s coming too, and that, Connor was prepared for. He clenches down as Hank fills him up with cum. Connor savours every last drop of it. He doesn’t realize until Hank stops moving that he’s trembling. 

He throws his arm over his eyes. He can’t deal with himself. With Hank. It’s so _confusing_. He’s a detective with a mission, but when Hank’s holding him, all he feels is _love_.

And that’s the most damning evidence of all. It’s all there, clear as day. Connor really is a _deviant._

Whatever denial he was still clinging to shatters right before his eyes. Hank gently pulls his arm away. Hank kisses him again, tender and sweet.

Connor surrenders to it, because if he doesn’t have his program, then Hank’s all he has.


End file.
